


To Target a Strome

by WeaglesAndBrobeans



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Brotherly Love, Fights, Hockey, Protective
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-16
Updated: 2019-01-16
Packaged: 2019-10-11 10:16:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17444987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WeaglesAndBrobeans/pseuds/WeaglesAndBrobeans
Summary: “You have a job to do, but you’re kind of on the ice looking out for your brother,” Ryan said.Inspired by https://chicago.suntimes.com/sports/dylan-strome-ryan-strome/





	To Target a Strome

Ryan never coddled Dylan. He wanted his brother to thrive and he wanted his brother to grow. And it honestly didn’t take long before both of his younger brothers surpassed him in height. Yet, he was the big brother. And sometimes it was the big brothers job to step up. He can still recall vividly the first time he’d stepped into that role for Dylan.

Growing up, Ryan spent every waking moment out on the pond with the neighborhood boys. Shinny was life back then and nothing compared to the exhilaration of grinding it out with no refs, no parents, and no rules. He would often return home, cheeks bright against the cold, fresh bruises forming. “It’s old time hockey,” he’d whine at his mom when she hovered over her boy.

The Christmas before Dylan turned 9 he received a new pair of skates. Sitting under the warm glow of the Christmas tree surrounded by a sea of wrapping paper with new skates settled in his lap, Dylan immediately spun to face his big brother. “I wanna come play Ry. Can I please?”

Ryan could never say no to those puppy eyes.

The following day they bundled up, jerseys over sweatshirts over long johns, and stepped out into the icy December air. Matthew, their youngest brother, had begged to join but he’d been sick on and off and their mother put her foot down. Besides, this was Dylan’s day.

Dylan had been skating since he could walk, and Ryan had taught him everything he knew about puck handling and driving for the net. He’d played in the local rec league for two years now, but Ryan had always barred him from afternoons on the pond. It was just too aggressive for a scrawny little kid like Dylan. But on this bitter December 26th, the time felt right.

Side by side the brothers tromped through knee high snow as they forged their way to the local pond. In the distance the cries of glee and excitement buzzed. It took every ounce of will power for Dylan to not break out into a dead sprint towards the ice.

A cluster of boys were gliding around one another and shoving each other playfully, but as the Strome brothers approached they slowed to eye the kid brother practically bouncing next to Ryan.

“Hope he’s here for moral support Strome, cause I actually want to _play_ today,” called out a tall blonde who was practically swimming in a Lindros jersey. Dylan froze. Glancing towards his big brother he waited for the shoe to drop, for Ryan to brush him aside and go along with what the older boys wanted. But instead the eleven year old glowered and grabbed Dylan by the shoulder.

“Aw, take off Teddy. Dilly could beat any of you any day of the week,” he challenged.

A swell of pride rushed through Dylan, chin jutting in confidence at his big brothers words.

Ryan chose Dylan for his team and then filled in the gaps with two stocky defensive boys and another forward. No goalies today, the pond was massive and there were only ten boys playing.

As the game got under way, exhilaration soared through the eight year old. He was finally here. He was finally playing with the big kids. The excitement was short lived as a stick wrapped around his ankle and yanked sending him flying across the ice. _No refs, no calls,_ Ryan’s words from that morning rang out. Resilient, Dylan scrambled to his feet and jumped back in the fray.

Not a moment later, he’d recovered the puck, danced around one defender, shoved his backside into another and sent a beautiful saucer pass backhand to Ryan who had been crashing the net with expectancy. All it took was a minor redirection and they’d scored first. Raising his arms in triumph, Dylan skittered past his opponents and threw himself into Ryan’s waiting arms.

Less than five minutes passed and Dylan had set up another teammate for a goal, and managed to get one in the net himself. They were winning 3-1 and he was beaming, smile stretching out ear to ear.

Ryan on the other hand had been watching with keen eyes. He watched as the hits intensified, as the fouls piled up. The more Dylan shined, the more irritated the other team got.

Dylan glided to the center of the pond having returned from celebrating his first shinny goal. He tapped his stick to the ice, up to Teddy’s stick, and back again. While he reached forward and whisked the puck to Ryan at his right, Teddy didn’t even try to win the faceoff. Instead, gripping his own stick with two hands he jabbed upward and struck Dylan across the throat.

Collapsing forward, Dylan crashed face first into the cold surface as he grasped at his neck gulping for air.

Ryan dropped his stick in shock. Dylan was his kid brother. His responsibility. And now he was writhing on the ice as blood trickled from a cut on his temple, hands clutching at his throat. Ryan charged.

The other kid had a few inches on him, but height wouldn’t dissuade Ryan’s fury. Launching himself at the boy, he tackled the blonde to the ground and began wailing on him. Blow after blow rained down. All of his attention had zeroed in on this bully and all that mattered was sending a message. Nobody gets to touch Dylan. Nobody.

The shock soon wore off and the other boys jumped in to pull Ryan off the now bloodied preteen. His pristine white Lindros jersey was now splattered with an assortment of pink from where his own blood had spread.

“What the?” he moaned. “What the fuck Strome?”

Ryan stood, his own swollen knuckles hung by his sides as he towered over the boy.

“Nobody fucks with Dylan. Is that clear?” the gathering of youth stared, some in awe and others in horror, but all nodded in assent.

Ryan knelt by Dylan and pulled away the boys hands. “Let me see Dilly, let me see,” he coaxed. Below where Dylan’s mittens had been was an ugly mark across his Adam’s apple reddened and swelling. Ryan muttered gratefully to the hockey gods that his brother was breathing properly, and then got to work. He guided his little brother’s left hand to cover the cut on his temple and then scooped the boy up before skating to the edge of the pond.

After shedding his own skates as quickly as possible, Ryan pulled his final boot on and grabbed his little brother once more.

To say their mom was mortified would fall short. She took in her children and properly mom’ed them for the remainder of the afternoon.  

The next day, butterfly bandage worn like a badge of pride, Dylan had begged to return to the pond. The years passed and soon Matthew was tagging along. Altercations continued, but the boys always had each other’s backs out on the ice.

And if the trio came home with an assortment of black eyes or scraped jaws because Ryan felt the need to defend his brothers out on the neighborhood pond, well he didn’t regret it.

Sure they were absolute terrors in their own home, knocking holes in the basement drywall as they shoved and wrestled and checked their way through their younger years. Ryan could still recall the weight in his gut, terrified of repercussion as Dylan ran to their mom with tears streaming down his face and a whine escaping from bloodied lips. “Mom, Ryan he, he, he!” There was nothing quite as condemning as a stuttered, tear ridden accusation.

But for all the aggression the three boys poured on in the safety of their home, the dynamic shifted drastically when they hit the ice. Out on the pond it was them versus the world. And nobody walked off scotch free if they dared target a Strome.


End file.
